Thursday, July 12, 2012

The Wishing Tree

The Wishing Tree
     I was hot and tired from sitting still all morning. Church had been holy hell for me. I knew I had an entire afternoon ahead of momma making us sit for hours and read the bible in Aunt Reba’s parlor. The prospect of this was so boring and awful that I couldn’t stand it. I needed to find Gretchen right away. If we could slip away before momma found us, we could go to the river with the town kids and cool off. The trick was getting Gretchen to go along with it. Being the goody-goody that she is, if she stayed behind, momma would have her goodness to compare with my truancy and that would surely result in a butt-whipping for me.
I found her standing by the reverend’s wife with a group of church women. Thank heavens that neither momma nor Aunt Reba was there; if so, my plan never would have worked.  I sidled over to about five feet from the group.
     “Pssst, Gretchen,” I whispered loudly, trying to get her attention. “Hey, come here.”
    “What?” She looked over annoyed as usual with me, with little sisters in general. ‘I am having a conversation.” The reverend’s wife flicked her eyes over to me and then went back to talking to Mrs. Thompson.
“Come.Over.Here!” I hissed “Please…”
“Oh for heaven’s sake,” she stalked over to me “What is it? I was in the middle of a conversation.”
     “The only things they talk about” I retorted jerking my chin in their direction “is a bunch of chicken feed; cause they ain’t nothing but a group of hens.” I felt a blush of pride at the scandalized look on my sister’s face though I knew I wasn’t helping to get her to go along with my cause. “Now, I got a plan, a real refreshing one, and I need your help.”
Her face flashed with interest before settling back into the stern mask she always seemed to be wearing lately. She leaned in and her whisper had a harsh quality to it. “No Peggy, I don’t know what you have in mind but I know that look on your face. That look spells T-R-O-U-B-l-E.” She pointed her finger right at my nose. ‘I won’t have it.”
     “Won’t have what? A hard ass from sitting on one of those straight-backed chairs this afternoon at Aunt Reba’s? ‘Cause that is exactly what you will have if you go along to get along like always, or,” I narrowed my eyes and wrapped my hand around her finger that was hanging in front of my face, “you could live a little and go to the river and maybe cool off. Maybe get a chance to talk to Maxwell for real instead of looking at him like a Mooney bird all the time.”
Gretchen shook her hand free of my grasp and quickly looked around to make sure no one had heard me mention Maxwell’s name. “Don’t use that kind of language; and in church!”  Her admonishment was automatic though, I could see that her heart wasn’t in it. Her voice dropped to barely audible, “do you think he will be there?”
     I knew then that I had won. The prospect of freedom made me generous even though I had no idea where Maxwell Tidell was spending his afternoon. “Sure he will. And I’ll bet he’ll even take his shirt off for swimming!”
     Half an hour later we emerged from the sun dappled forest path to the river bank. I was relieved to see that Maxwell was there after all. Gretchen’s face lit up as she saw him. He was standing with a group of boys laughing about something, shaking his dark curly head back and forth. Even though I thought boys were pretty much useless, I had to admit that he was handsome; still, to moon over someone like that?  Maxwell turned and looked over our way, his smile broadened as he made eye contact with Gretchen.
     “Oh Peggy, he’s walking over here,” she breathed. “What do I do?”
I rolled my eyes and prepared to come up with a really clever answer but couldn’t think of anything, besides she was already gliding over to meet him and wouldn’t have heard me anyway. Over by the tire swing I saw my neighbor Tommy Fenton and the Walker twins raising a rumpus and splashing around. By the time I made it over there, my sister and her love life were the farthest thing from my mind. Tommy’s dad had just left for Korea and I knew how that felt, only my dad never returned.
“Hi fellows…and Fiona,” I announced as I strutted over. Fiona Walker gave me a yellow gap-toothed grin back. “What cha doing?”
Tommy looked up “Cooling off, I got about an hour and then ma needs me back at the house to paint.”
I nodded sagely “Yep, I know all about that. Being the child of a war hero myself, if those Nazi bastards hadn’t of murdered my pop, my life would be a lot more leisurely.”
   “Shut up Peggy,” Tommy sneered, “your father was a drunk and never even made it out of Fort Benning. Not only did he kill himself in that wreck, he took an entire family with him.” He stood up and brushed some of the mud off his shorts. “So don’t try to relate to me. As far as I’m concerned you and your sister and your momma are trash living off your Aunt Reba’s charity. My ma says…”
    “I don’t give a hot damn what your cow of a ma says or what you say!” I was fighting back hot tears, dizzy with shame and anger. I shoved him as hard as I could; he landed hard on his ass. “You can both go straight to hell for all I care!” I turned and stomped away, leaving that asshole sitting in the mud and the Walker twins starting after me with their big, stupid eyes.  The riverbank was a blur of tears and other kids as I looked around for Gretchen. I looked over where Maxwell and his friends had been and saw to my dismay that he was sitting with Tommy’s sister Alice, holding her hand. Rage bloomed inside of me at this. I was angry at Tommy and Alice and their stupid ma, angry at Maxwell for holding her hand when clearly Gretchen was a better pick, angry at ma for making us move in with Aunt Reba, and most of all angry at pop for drinking and getting into a crash and leaving us.
     “Oh Peggy! Let’s get out of here!” Gretchen came up from behind me and grabbed my hand. I didn’t resist but let her drag me into the woods. We ran together through the trees holding hands like children from a fairy tale. We ran together, both crying at the unfairness that life had dealt us.
After what felt like forever but was only a couple of minutes, we reached a clearing and slowed to a walk. My chest was heaving from running and crying at the same time and my hair was sticking to my face from the tears, sweat, and humidity. I dropped Peggy’s hand and turned to look at her. I was about to tell her all about Tommy and his ma but stopped cold at the wretched expression on her face.
     “He kissed her,” she sobbed.  “He was talking to me and when she came up; he turned his back on me and kissed her.” She leaned against a slippery elm and wrapped her arms around it. “I hate Alice, she doesn’t even like Maxwell and she’s taking him away from me.  I wish she would go away and quit ruining my life!”
    “Bastards, both of them!”  I hugged my sister around the tree from the other side. “Yeah, I wish she would take her no account brother with her…and their ma!”
 We stood there like that for a little while and then wiped the tears off our faces and headed back through the forest to Aunt Reba’s.
That night the Fenton house burned to the ground taking Mrs. Fenton, Tommy, and Alice with it. They lived across the street and over one from Aunt Reba’s place. We woke up a little after midnight to the sound of sirens wailing and slices of red lights revolving on the ceiling and walls. The worst was the smell of burning and smoke coming through our open window. We ran downstairs and out the front door without even grabbing our robes.
It looked like the entire neighborhood was out on the street. Firemen were working to put out the blaze consuming Tommy’s house. I looked around for him or Alice and didn’t see them anywhere. I turned to momma.
     “Where’s Tommy?” I asked although in my secret heart I think I already knew the answer. She didn’t say anything; she just looked at me and shook her head slowly back and forth. I heard a choked sob from behind me and turned to hug Gretchen.
That night neither of us slept. We eventually made it back up to our shared room and laid in our beds in a shell shocked silence. A little after dawn, I finally said what I had been tossing around in my head all night.
     “You know that this is our fault right?” I turned over on my right side so that I could look at her. She was lying on her back with her hands covering her eyes. “We did this.”
     “What are you talking about?”
     “You know what in the hell I’m talking about,” I swung my legs over to the edge of the bed and sat up. “We wished they would go away…ALL of them, and they did.”
    “That is ridiculous       Peggy; their house burned down is all. We had nothing to do with it.”
     “Maybe we didn’t mean for anything to happen, but it did and it is because we made that wish. I know it and you know it!”
She sat up and swung her legs over the bed too and with a fierceness that was unexpected she hissed “Fine! Let’s test the theory! I wish that I was queen of England and that I had a room made of gold!” she looked around sarcastically, “Well there goes your theory; just ordinary me in our ordinary room.”
      “Just saying the wish doesn’t matter” I whispered, “you have to recreate the whole thing.” Then I said it, the thought that had been underneath the other crazy thoughts all night.  “It was the tree.”
     “Let me get this straight Peggy, you think that the tree burned down the Fenton’s house?” She looked incredulous but a little scared too, “OK little sister, let’s go test out this wishing tree!”  With that she jumped up and stormed across the room to the dresser. She jerked her nightgown over her head and threw it on the floor and then tugged on a dress. I was frightened; Gretchen was the steady one. Seeing her blazing around the room like this and stomping into her shoes confirmed what the little worm in my gut was telling me, something is wrong here.
I followed her through the woods toward the tree. She was walking so fast that I had to jog to keep up. When we reached the clearing, she paused for just a second and then strode across it and flung her arms around the tree. I could feel the air get heavy…charged, the way it does before a storm. The little worm in my gut wasn’t a worm after all. It was a butterfly. An awful butterfly that was beating its wings in my stomach and making me want to throw up. I needed to stop her before something else terrible happened. Before I could say anything she closed her eyes and opened her mouth.
“I wish that our family could be together again!”  
     “Are you crazy?” I slapped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “That is the worst wish ever!” I stomped over to that damn tree and slammed my hand against its trunk. “Listen up you evil fucker! I don’t want any part of you or her wishes!”
For once, Gretchen said nothing about my bad language; she just stood there looking at me with bright sparrow eyes and flushed cheeks. Still, she had a bland expression that I didn’t care for. It was like she wasn’t all there. I’d never seen someone look both bland and flushed at the same time and at that moment, for as much as I loved her, I hated her too.
“Don’t you get it?” I yelled, “Wishes are tricky! They’re like making a deal with the devil. You gotta be careful and find the loopholes.”  I started pacing back and forth. I could feel the roots of the tree poking hard through my shoes. “Pop is dead! Wishing that we could all be together again is like inviting a zombie version of him to come knock on Reba’s door! You need to take it back!”
     “I’m not taking anything back” she said evenly. “We’ll just see which one of us is right.” With that, she walked off; leaving me standing alone by the tree. I took my belt and wrapped it around the base of the trunk just to make sure that when I came back there would be no mistake about which tree I was gonna take down.
The next day momma took Gretchen shopping for a dress to wear to the Fenton’s funeral. I didn’t go along since I could fit into her old one from daddy’s funeral. I spent the morning fidgeting and walking around the house. I was waiting for something bad to happen and as it turned out, I didn’t have to wait long.
The knock at the door came right after lunch. I knew as soon as I saw the police officer standing on the porch with his hat in his hands that my entire world had ended. Aunt Reba invited him in but he just stood nervously in the foyer. I sat on the bottom step and watched the dust motes swirl in the beam of sun right above his shoulder. He said the words “car accident” but I knew the truth. It was that damn tree and her damn wish.
A flood of memories hit me at once. We are at the beach and momma was collecting shells with me and Gretchen. We giggled in the surf and put the delicate pink and yellow pieces over our fingernails and pretended that we were mermaids. Gretchen holding me all night after pop died; her promise that she would always take care of me- only she wasn’t here to do that anymore.
Aunt Reba was still talking to the officer when I decided to take action. I got up off the step and slipped out the back door and ran over to the shed to get the sharpest, meanest looking ax I could find.  I got one and a saw. I ran back into the kitchen and grabbed a pack of matches out of the drawer.
A half an hour later I was crossing the clearing. My belt hung limply around the base of the wishing tree like a discarded snake skin. The air all around was getting that charged, heavy quality and the sky was iron-metal gray. It looked and felt as though the sun and daylight had been sucked away. The little hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stood up and even though I felt a breeze and saw the leaves and branches on all the other trees moving and swaying; the wishing tree was still.
I knew then that the tools I brought with me were useless. The ax would probably shatter in my hands. I had to beat this thing at its own game. I dropped my weapons and started circling the tree slowly. I needed to be clever. I needed to phrase it right.
I took a deep breath and made the last wish I would ever make in life. I promised myself that there would be no more evening stars, no more pennies thrown down any wishing wells, no more birthday candles; just this one wish. I decided that clever wasn’t working for me and that direct would be the best way to go.
“I wish that this tree would be destroyed and there will never be another wish granted from it.”
Power surged from all over. It felt like my hands were stuck to the tree. There was a blinding white flash and an unbearable heat. It was so quick that I don’t really remember what I was yelling; only that I was, and the next thing I know I was laying in the middle of the clearing about 15 yards from where the tree lay on its side smoking and split in two.
I took a quick inventory of myself just to make sure that I wasn’t on fire and that nothing was broken. The pounding electric quality that had been in the air was gone and the sun was back out. I could hear birds chirping again.
I left that clearing and the shouldering remains of the tree. I went on back to Reba’s and grieved hard for those I lost. Aunt Reba and I went on over the years to forge a decent relationship. It wasn’t the same as having Gretchen and momma there but I respected her and she was as loving toward me as she knew how to be. As far as the tree goes, I left it there that day and never once came back. I knew that the wishing tree was dead.  


Tuesday, June 12, 2012

I am so sick of writing about these assholes

I am so sick of writing about this family of assholes for my creative writing class but they are the characters who spring to mind. I cannot even imagine who they are based on; probably based on some soap opera that was on in the background while I was sleeping once. Oh well, the story is due soon and all I have is a bunch of scenes that are supposed t o show different stuff like characterization and setting. There isn't a real plot yet and if I can scrap the whole thing and start over with something else I would in a heartbeat. Here, meet the family:

#1 Show and don't tell exercise: We are supposed to write a scene where we are showing and not telling the reader what is going on. Then we need to rewrite it with an emotion picked off of a list (I picked anger). 

Part 1
Josie came in through the kitchen door and tossed her keys on the counter.
“Is that you?” called a voice from upstairs.
“That depends on who ‘you’ is” she called back. Humming under her breath, she kicked off her tennis shoes and padded over to the fridge. Opening the stainless steel door with one hand, she simultaneously brushed her hair back with the other and tossed her head, shaking the curls out of her eyes. . “UMMM, YOU NEED TO GO SHOPPING! THIS PLACE IS, LIKE EMPTY!”
“You don’t have to shout, I’m right here.” Silvia’s voice was like her appearance: sleek, pale, impeccable. She glided in the room and slid her eyes up and down Josie’s frame. Taking it all in: from her unruly hair to the hole in her sock. She inhaled sharply through her nose “can you please manage to be presentable for one afternoon?” as she spoke the word “presentable” she make a sweeping gesture with one manicured hand, indicating Josie’s hair and clothing.
Josie replied by pulling the tab on a diet soda she scavenged from the bottom of the refrigerator, “hiss-pop.” Sylvia disliked soda and Josie was always sneaking cans in and squirreling them away. After taking a deep pull from the can, she set it on the counter and said “I’m sorry that I don’t live up to your standards. In a couple of weeks I’ll be 18 and what you think about my ‘presentation’ won’t matter anymore.” With that, she picked up her can and walked out.
Sylvia watched her leave and slowly traced the ring of condensation left on the granite countertop with one finger. “Oh, Josephine” she sighed “I wish I mattered more to you.”
Part 2
Josie came in through the kitchen door, announcing her arrival by the slam and jangle of her keys hitting the counter.
“Is that you?” called a voice from upstairs.
“That depends on who ‘you’ is” she retorted, rolling her eyes, then under her breath “stupid…stupid, stupid.” She stalked over to the fridge and yanked open the stainless steel door with one hand while simultaneously raking a fringe of unruly curls out of her eyes with the other. “WHY IS THERE NEVER ANYTHING GOOD TO EAT OR DRINK IN THIS HOUSE?”
“You don’t have to shout, I’m right here.” Silvia’s voice was like her appearance: sleek, pale, impeccable. “Please Josephine, can you manage to be pleasant for one afternoon, one?” the last word came out like a sigh. 
Josie pulled out a diet soda and relished the pained look on Sylvia’s face as she pulled the tab on the can with a satisfying “hiss-pop.” Sylvia hated soda.  Smirking, she took a long pull from the can, slammed it down on the counter and replied “Whatever, I’m outta of here soon enough. 13 days and 7 hours until my eighteenth birthday and then I can be as pleasant or unpleasant as I want to WHOEVER I want and I won’t have to take your crap anymore.”
 She grabbed her soda can and flounced out of the kitchen. The pounding of footsteps could be heard as she went up stairs, then the sound of a slamming door which made Sylvia startle a bit, even though she knew it was coming. Sylvia took a slow deep breath and slowly traced the ring of condensation on the granite counter with her finger. “It is ‘whomever’ not ‘whoever’” her voice was low and steely “and good luck paying the rent on your fabulous new life once all your money has been cut off, you little shit.”

 #2 Characterization- We were supposed to describe a character's room for the first part then for the second part have dialogue between 2 of the characters that is really about something deeper than what they appear to be talking about. For the last part, the character has to make a mistake or do something wrong. 

1)       Sylvia’s bedroom is a lesson in orderliness. Mess is not tolerated here and it shows. The king sized bed she shares with her husband looks as though it has never been touched by human hands. The bedspread is as white and pristine as an uncharted Arctic tundra. There are three pillows arranged along the headboard which itself looks to be made of some fantastic, polished wood imported from some exotic faraway land, Narnia perhaps.
     Like the pyramids of Giza, the temperature of the room is a constant 68 degrees Fahrenheit. There are no adornments anywhere in the room save one; an original painting by the abstract expressionist painter Mark Rothko which hangs in a prominent position on the wall opposing the bed.  It is the only blood in an otherwise cold and bloodless room. It is very beautiful and very expensive. It is Sylvia’s pride and joy.

2.)      “Kyle,” Sylvia’s heels clicked faintly on the tile as she approached her husband’s study, “we need to make reservations for our dinner with Josephine and Mark on Friday.”
     “I believe his name is Mike,” he replied without looking up from his papers, “and I believe you know that. Anywhere you want to go is fine with me.”
   “Mark…Mike…, who cares what his name is, I expect he is going to turn out to be horrible just like the rest of her friends. Now decide where you want this little charade to play out, Morton’s or Giovanni’s?” She click clacked across the floor and stood in front of his desk waiting for an answer.
     Kyle looked up briefly at his wife, “Giovanni’s is fine with me. I’m always up for a meal there, plus its Josie’s favorite.”
       “Yes but I think that Morton’s might be more appropriate for this occasion, given that they are located closer to downtown,” she raised her chin with a triumphant gleam in her eyes, “I think that I’ll call there now and reserve our table for 7:00.’
 3.)     The August evening enveloped her like a giant octopus; all tentacles and inky stickiness. It was hot. Sylvia had no idea why she decided to come here. Really, what was the purpose? She had no more ties to the woman who lived in the building across the parking lot anymore. The past was dead and gone. As far as Kyle and Josephine knew, her mother was dead and gone too. They thought that because she told them that. Much better to have them believe that than to subject them to the alcoholic mess who raised her.
    It was easier to write a check, drawn from her personal account of course, every month and be done with it; be done with HER. Life was simple and cleaner that way, at least it was until the call came.
     The nurse who stayed with Connie (always Connie and NEVER Mother) called this morning. She wouldn’t last much longer, possibly not even through the night. It had been 15 years since they last met face to face and it had taken Sylvia all day to “screw her courage to the sticking place” and come here.
    The nurse said that Connie had been sober for the last 10 of those years. She said that Connie missed her and spoke of her often, especially over the last few days.  It would be a shame to deny her dying request. What if Josephine could actually meet her grandmother? What if Connie died knowing that her legacy went on in the shape of a beautiful, amazing granddaughter? Josephine favored her in looks and intelligence. Her daughter might never forgive her for the lie she had been told her whole life but maybe it would be worth it. Maybe this experience would ground her a little bit and give her some direction. Lord knows, Josephine was starting to show a wild side; one that needed to be tamed.
     Sylvia took a small step across the parking lot and imagined trying to explain to her husband, to her daughter, that she was a liar for all these years; that her mother lived. She remembered all those lonely nights as a child, waiting for her mother to come home from God knows where, with God knows who. She remembered the hunger and the cold and the thousands of taunts from other children for her shabby clothing. It was too much. It was too damn hot. She found herself back in the comfort of her sedan with the cool air blowing from the vent on her face. It is better this way, she thought to herself, cleaner. She put the car in gear and pulled out onto the road.


Monday, June 4, 2012

Oh my hair!

Below is a recent writing assignment for a writing class I am taking. We had to "free write" and then base a first page of a potential story on the free writing. Since we are supposed to write what we know, I picked the subject "bad haircut." Recently I took Ian to get his hair done by my friend Maya and she did a fantastic job. Which I knew she would. I've decided to make the drive to Baltimore from now on and see if she can "fix" the damage of a dozen bad haircuts. I think she will and am actually a lot more optimistic about the future of my hair than this writing lets on. 

Bad Haircut free writing 

I have a love/hate relationship with my hair. It is a vibrant red that has always defined me. I read somewhere that only one percent of the population has natural red hair. Knowing that I am a member of such an exclusive club is something that makes the other stuff that goes along with being a red head tolerable. You know, stuff like the freckles and the nicknames (carrot-top comes to mind…ugh!). 

So, I love the color but truly detest the texture. It is coarse and frizzy and ever since I was a little girl, I would dream of having silky, smooth hair like many of my friends. As I got older and discovered Google, I learned that the frizz and fuzz was not something that I had to live with. All I needed to do was use “natural” hair cleansers (shampoo is WAY too harsh) and conditioners without any s sulfates or silicones. If I did this, my hair would supposedly revert back to its natural state of soft, frizz-free curls. Oh, and I had to find a stylist who knew how to cut curly hair.

To do this, I had to break up with my current stylist. Clearly she had no idea how to deal with naturally curly hair. She had been using silicones and sulfates on my hairs for years! The problem is that virtually every stylist I talked to claimed that they knew “exactly” what the previous stylist had done wrong and that it could easily be fixed “without sacrificing any of the length.” This pronouncement is almost always accompanied by a slow sad shake of the head as my hair is lifted and held out at various angles and studied.

The end result is hair that went from mid-way down my back to just below my ears in length and “long layers” that resemble Billy Ray Cyrus’s mullet circa 1995. I think that instead of spending any more time trying to “fix” my hair, I am going to  just let it be. 

First page:

    It always starts the same way. First the newest stylist circles me, eyeing me as I go through the spiel.
“I am really tired of the frizzy hair, you know?” She nods her head and lifts a lock of my hair and narrows her eyes. I continue “I read this book about how to be a ‘curly girl.’ That is the name of it, Curly Girl, anyway all I need to do is avoid sulfates and silicones; basically stop over washing my hair with detergents and then coating it and keeping the dryness locked inside…”
This is where I always lose them. Stylists are big believers in PRODUCT. I can tell by the expression on her face that she has no idea what I am talking  about and is gearing up to try to sell me some sort of curling cream that will coat my hair in silicone. She lifts another piece of hair by my ear and looks at it like it is a puppy who has poo’ed on the carpet.
“I can see exactly what the last stylist did wrong here and I know exactly how to fix it.” These are words that I have heard before. “All you need are some long layers to frame your face, really bring the curl out, and I’ll finish it with some glistening curl enhancing spray.” I sit there in the chair and close my eyes. When am I just going to let my hair grow?

Friday, March 23, 2012


I went into work tonight and filled in at the bar for about half and hour because the bartender was running late. During this time three guys came in. They were from out of town. I know this because they told me they were from out of town, Georgia specifically.
 I get them beer and talk with them for a minute or two. Guy #1 asks me to explain how to play Keno because apparently there is not Keno in Georgia (at least that was how he said it "I don't know how to play this, I'm from Georgia"). I spend a few minutes explaining the game to this guy and show him how to fill in the paper so that he can play. He loses his first game and wants to play again. He asks question after question about the payouts for each amount of numbers that can be played. I resist the urge to tell him that he is looking at the same paper as me with the payouts listed and patiently answer each question. I am pretty damn nice about it too.  Now he wants to play for a few consecutive games. He fills out the paper wrong and I fix it for him by filling out a new one.
At this time the bartender comes in. Because they are clearly going to be there for a little while (due to the consecutive upcoming Keno games and the fact that they said they wanted to start a tab) I just hand the tab over to Natalie and go out into the restaurant. 
Imagine my surprise later when I learn that that guy won something like $2500 on the ticket that I fixed and filled out for him. Did I find out because he was so grateful that he came over and gave me a big tip? Nope, although that certainly would have been appropriate and nice. Did I find out because he walked over to thank me for helping him and to share his great news? Nope! Although that too would have been way appropriate and also very nice. No, I ended up hearing later from the bartender that he won and then packed up and left.
It is not a big deal. I certainly don't think that he was under any obligation to come over and tip me (although that would have been awesome AND something that I would have done if it were me in his place) but I think that a thanks would have been nice. At the very least.
Anyway, congrats dude from Georgia. Keep it classy.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Sh*t Ian says...

I am tripped out by the things my three year old comes up with. For the sake of not overwhelming and annoying the crap out of all of my Facebook friends every time he says something I want to share, I figured I would just post it here, you know, on my blog.  I'll add stuff here and there. Only two for today.
1. "Mommy, I need to tell you that I'm Canadian"
2. (as he was eating nachos) "Gorgeous, I love cheese. These are gorgeous!"
3. (Upon seeing a butterfly) "His name is Narm!" Me: "Narm?" Ian "No, NORM mommy, his name is NORM" and then he shakes his head like I am an idiot.

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

These are a few of my favorite things

For some reason I have an urge to make a list. Certainly not a list of "things to do" because that would be useful and require effort! Instead, I am going to make a list of some of my favorite things. Here it is (note things are not listed in any particular order)
1. red shoes

2.cinnamon- both the way it tastes and the way it smells. Yum!

3. snow- I love the OTHERNESS of snow. It is like going through the wardrobe and discovering that Narnia is actually your front yard.

4. rainy and cloudy weather AND chilly weather= cozy

5. green pants- especially army or olive green. I have no idea why but I just like them. actually, I like pretty much any clothing this color. Maybe because I'm a redhead and green just looks good on me?

6. reading- both kindle and books the old fashioned way

7. good photographs of myself-  um can you say..."narcissist"

8. sleep- duh, who doesn't love sleep

9. coffee- I like tea too but not that much. It is more like I WANT to like tea but tea is really coffee's poor second cousin or like the 5th season of 21 Jump street which sucked because neither Peter DeLuise or Johnny Depp were in it. Meaning it is still a caffeinated hot drink but without Tom Hanson in it.
Wait, what was I talking about?


Yeah, so that is my list for now. I actually like a lot of other things but it is late and I want to read (#6) for while before going to bed (#8) goodnight

Saturday, January 7, 2012

Words, words, words.....(the books are like candy edition)

One of my favorite things about being on break is that I get to read real non-nursing related books. Reading for fun...sigh. I love it and always have. This winter, thanks to the kindle lending library, I have really gone overboard. I spent hours going through the e-books available from the library and reserved a LOT of them. while I was waiting for the reserves to become available I started re-reading the Sookie Stackhouse series.
Oh yeah, nothing like trashy vampire books to make me realize that I am ON BREAK and have little to zero mental responsibilities. Love, love, love... Speaking of trashy vampire novels, I have also been introduced to Anita Blake as well.  I'm not addicted to that series but am happy to have found it.
I read the second to latest Dexter book too. It was OK but reading Jeff Lindsay is kind of kind having a conversation with someone with both obsessive tendencies AND extreme short term memory loss. His running gag is the dangerous traffic in Miami. It gets old. I feel like he doesn't read his own work because if he did, he would realize that he talks about Miami's asshole drivers every four paragraphs and maybe would just give it a rest for a couple of pages. My other problem is that in the Dexter book's universe bad childhood automatically seems to equal having a dark passenger. That's a bit too much suspension of belief. I guess I read the books because I love the show and Michael C. Hall is the hotness. And yes, I am being a raging hypocrite because as soon as the Double Dexter becomes available I am going to devour that sh*t like it was book candy.